


The Place Where We Intertwine

by Nitzer



Series: pre and post [2]
Category: Winner (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Day At The Beach, Fluff, M/M, all kangnam all the time, commentary on idol culture, i can't believe it but the others like aren't even mentioned, mostly based on winner tv, taehyun's mental illness makes a slight appearance, these two are just sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-18 21:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16127519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nitzer/pseuds/Nitzer
Summary: Technically, the place is Busan but all Taehyun remembers is Yoon.





	The Place Where We Intertwine

**Author's Note:**

> i'll never run out of things to say about taehyun as a member or winner tbh and like kangnam was real sweet, taehyun trusted yoon so much even if they didn't seem so close so i gotta contribute something  
> as always: fuck yg  
> also i make brief references to taehyun's mental illnesses but nothing graphic

“Have you ever seen it before?” Seungyoon settles down behind me while I’m watching some key scenes of _The Heirs_ on Minho’s laptop in the dressing room.

“No,” I whisper. The dressing room is unusually quiet, Jinwoo dozing off while his makeup is being done, Minho maybe asleep with his earbuds in and I’m playing the drama low enough to barely be a hum. It’s almost cozy for a company dressing room with a long wig weaved tightly into my hair for the first time. “But my grandma did and she’ll lose it when she finds out we’re doing this.” Seungyoon’s radiating heat and comfort in our little corner of the room. “Mom’s gonna be even more excited that _you’re_ my love interest.”

He laughs against me, sliding next to me on the couch. Months ago, Yoon never would’ve gotten this close to me unless it was fanservice and even then I would’ve just laughed awkwardly and shied away. Now it’s warm and it’s comforting and I’m letting it happen. It feels like progress to me and for Yoon it probably feels like finally coaxing a skittish animal out from under the bed. “I’ll text your mom pictures of the kiss scene.” He teases.

“Why do _you_ have my mom’s number?” I knock my shoulder against his.

“Because she likes me.” He knocks back against me. “It’s cute.” He says off-handedly, gesturing to where the drama is paused on the screen. It’s still early in the show, still mostly cute romance between the leads. “Makes me wanna go on a date.” He says wistfully and lets it hang in the air, getting heavier with each passing second of silence. “How’s the wig?” He asks like the atmosphere isn’t heavy with _implications_ now.

“I’ve worn less comfortable things.” I concede. The wig doesn’t really pinch or anything and whatever psychological breakdown or epiphany I was expecting to have seeing myself all femmed up never comes. My reflection just shows me myself in a wig and I look pretty cute but that’s about all I can say. It’s maybe a bit of a letdown that way.

“It’s cute.” He says fondly, running his fingers through the synthetic strands. I wonder if the months (maybe years) of creeping into my life, going busking together, teamwork building exercises and making me comfortable with the whole team (but especially Yoon) was for this here. Was to let him touch me like this, let him invade my space. Was to play my love interest in this drama parody. It doesn’t matter either way. I’m taking comfort in his easy affection and constant warmth. I’m used to indulging myself in things that are plastic and temporary anyway. I’ll take this too.

So when his hand drops from the wig to rest on my thigh, I don’t shrug it off. I maybe even shift myself to let him get closer.

It’s months after Japan, months after _Winner TV_ , months after debut and things have completely stopped. I expected things to slow eventually, I knew what idol life was like. Instead, months after a successful debut, things halted. There are a handful of finished songs that we believe in and several more that just need some polishing but the company doesn’t care. We write more songs and the company still doesn’t care. And then the creative process slows and stops and then everything else stops too. And most time is free time.

Seungyoon drops his idea into conversation as casually and subtly as he’s capable of (so it smashes into the conversation like a wrecking ball). “I’m thinking of going back to Busan.” He says while playing with one of the cats in the living room. I already know that this—whatever it is—involves me. “Just for a day or something, I miss the beach.”

The mental image of Yoon on the beach is so stunningly warm and beautiful that I want to immortalize it. I want to experience it and I want to immortalize it. “I’ve never been.” It’s a vague acceptance of his vague invitation.

He smiles giddily, waving a toy in front of Rey’s face for a moment and silence is hopeful and _alive_. “Do you wanna come with me?”

And that’s how I end up with a round-trip, train ticket to Busan, squinting into the bright, early summer sun with Seungyoon. “My mom will kill me if she finds out I took the trip to Busan and didn’t visit her.” He laughs nervously next to me, his fingers still tapping against his thigh.

“Then why don’t we visit her?” I suggest. It’s not even noon yet and we were used to long days and late nights, we had time.

“I wanna show you the water.” He responded simply, lacing our fingers together.

“If my mom ever found out that she missed out on a chance to see you, she wouldn’t let me back in the house.” I joked back. I squeeze his hand.

“Your mom might love me more than my own mom, though.” The train slides into the station and Yoon’s fingers untangle from mine in the crowd, rushing towards the doors. No one’s stopped us yet. (For pictures, for autographs, or just to glare at our intertwined hands. No one’s looked yet I guess.)

Yoon crowds me into the seat nearest the window, even though there’s a whole other bench across from us in our compartment. “The view’s pretty on the way up too.” He tells me, pushing our bags to take up all the space on the other side. “Don’t miss out on it.”

He’s close, stupidly close and there’s really no reason with the whole space to just us and our two bags. It’s nice to be close without reason, though, there’s no pretense. He just wants to be here. The entire length of his thigh is pressing against mine and his hand is resting casually on my leg and there’s almost nowhere more comfortable I could imagine than pressed in-between Yoon and this train window.

He falls asleep on my shoulder minutes into the trip. I don’t mind, though. The view _is_ beautiful—glittering and towering buildings, rolling hills, and rocky mountains, all with the sparkling promise of a faraway ocean in the distance. The dumb-looking, utterly relaxed and unguarded face Seungyoon was giving me in his sleep was nice too. And the way his body curled even closer to me. The fact that I was trusted enough to fall asleep around was nice in itself, honestly.

Yoon wakes up with a dramatic and unflattering snort while the train is weaving slowly in between some mountains. “You missed the view.” I told him neutrally.

“I don’t think I missed a thing.” He responds, the wide smile curving his eyes into pretty crescents before it even makes it to his mouth. He’s still resting on my shoulder, beaming up at me and I’ve never felt more wanted (in a way that I was perfectly comfortable with) in my life. And I’m laughing with my own mild embarrassment and pure joy. He whistles lowly. “I mean, what a view.”

“I suppose I set that up for you.” I’m barely annoyed, if I am at all and I’m sure it’s obvious in my voice. It’s just that any sort of open invitation or obvious want or place in a group has always left me feeling warm and giddy. And Seungyoon was always really good at making sure there was a place for me, whether I wanted it or not.

He slid the rickety little door of our compartment closed before scooting back, closer than before. “Tell me no.” He whispers, his hand making a slow path over my shoulders to hold the nape of my neck.

“Why?” I challenge.

“Because you’re the only one I listen to,” his tongue darts out to wet his lips, “and this is a bad idea.”

It maybe is a bad idea. There’s no lock or anything on the door and anyone could open it at any time and this _is_ essentially public and YG never said shit about the 2NE1 scandal, forget the rookie boy group that they barely let debut. But this is Kang Seungyoon, king of bad ideas, so I don’t say anything. I slide my hand up his leg, inching closer to him. “Yes.” I breathe instead.

Seungyoon tastes like something completely indefinable, it’s warm though. It tastes warm and his mouth is searing against mine and I can feel his lips curl up against mine in a warm smile. His hand is soft against my neck, not pulling me forward anymore, just resting. He licks teasingly at my lips before pulling away. “You’re supposed to be the responsible one.” There’s nothing reprimanding about it, though, the sun’s still shining brightly in his eyes.

“You’re supposed to be the hyung.” I shoot back.

“How are we gonna get anything done then?”

“We don’t have to,” the bright warmth of Yoon feels like it’s burning through me (and it doesn’t hurt a bit), “we’re on break.”

He laughs fondly and pulls me back down for a kiss that was sweet and warm, both of us listening to the quiet rattling of the partition without worry.

“I’ve got this all planned out, don’t worry.” Seungyoon tells me excitedly as the train finally slows to our stop. He grabs my hand on the way off and holds it the entire time, even through the heavy crowds.

“Aren’t we just going to the beach?” I’ve seen the determined look on Yoon’s face plenty of times before, though and I know he really has something all planned out.

“We didn’t take a two hour train ride just to ‘go to the beach.’ It’s a whole experience!” He explains, throwing his hands up to prove his point. My fingers are still intertwined with his and my hand goes up with his and I’m already thinking about an album cover with our raised and clasped hands shining in the sun. It’s stupid to be thinking about an album at all when we have so much free time that we can manage a clandestine trip all the way to Busan, though.

Outside the train station, the sun is harshly bright in the clear blue sky but the wind is just as harsh and I’m glad for my flannel and Yoon’s regular seven layers of bullshit or whatever he thought was fashion. (It _was_ almost, kinda fashion in his own way, though.) It’s not ideal for early summer and the sidewalks aren’t bustling with tourists like I guess I imagined it. The sea still sparkles under the harsh sun so clearly and closely that it’s blinding and blindingly pretty, though.

“Snacks!” Yoon shouts determinedly, dragging me away from the train station and down the sidewalk. He looks a little bit like a kid in grown-up clothes, pointing ahead and rushing down the street in two coats and a button-up. It’s undeniably endearing.

We get snacks from a convenience store which really isn’t anything like the convenience stores by the dorms but is shockingly similar to the convenience stores I grew up with at home. The air conditioner buzzes loudly despite the chill outside and the refrigerators hum like old machines do. I can see some rust on some of the shelves. It’s always nice to know that I’m not the only one in the building that’s been through some things.

“What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream?” Yoon asks, already rifling through the freezer near the register.

“You don’t know?” I hold my hand over my chest dramatically. “I’m hurt.”

He laughs good-naturedly and pulls out a deep orange popsicle—mango, my favorite—anyway. He also stuffs his bag with some chips and soda before leaving with a cone of pink and blue ice cream of his own. “We can head down to the beach now, if you want. The snacks are just really important.” He says, his mouth trying to wrap around the cone to catch a drip of ice cream.

“Isn’t it kinda cold for that?”

He shrugs. “Less crowded that way.”

Boots were a bad choice for the beach but Seungyoon was wearing the same heavily layered and covered-up look he always was so I followed his lead. I didn’t expect us to be in the sand, though and now there’s sand all in my shoes and sticking to the bottoms of my skinny jeans. My popsicle has barely melted against the chill of ocean winds and rests easily against my mouth.

Yoon looks out at the sea, a bright smile forming on his face.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask casually, still trying to finish my popsicle.

“Remember when I did ‘Wild and Young’?”

It was hard not to. Seungyoon was always untouchable—the talented singer on my TV, the responsible hyung writing lyrics in his own practice room, the cool, solo artist about to shoot his own MV while I was still stuck learning how to dance. “Young and Wild” was what I strove for. It was success, it was a _career_. And I watched the MV under the covers of my bed at home with my younger brother, never truly owning up to how much I admired Seungyoon. And now I was standing on a beach with him, eating a popsicle he bought for me, thinking about the songs _I_ had written that _he_ sung. I just nod because I don’t quite have the words to sum all that up yet.

“ _I love you so much, it’s dangerous_.” He sings for me, spinning me around in the sand. And just the _implication_ that those lyrics from that song I idolized so much might have been written about me, that he might’ve thought about _me_ while running around the beach in front of cameras with models sends a jolt of electricity down my spine. “ _It’s you_.” He wails, running towards the water and I just watch for second because it’s prettier—inherently more _Yoon_ —than his MV.

“You better not jump in the water!” I yell when I realize that he’s not stopping.

He shrugs off one of his coats into the sand. “Someone’s gotta!” He yells back.

“You’re gonna get a cold!” I warn.

“I have a change of clothes.” He shrugs off his second coat and strips himself down to boxers and an undershirt and I’m still thoroughly convinced he’s gonna get a cold. “What should I yell before I jump in?” He asks. “I gotta yell something important.”

I think about “Winner hwaiting” but I’m pretty sure that we did that last time and this trip hardly feels connected to Winner, to the company, to the fans, to the others. “Kangnam hwaiting!” I yell back.

And then the smile warms into something that curves his eyes up into pretty crescents and melts my heart. “Kangnam hwaiting!” He yells and his deep bass echoes over the entire beach and he jumps. He emerges from choppy waves with uncharacteristic grace, whipping his hair back smoothly enough that it could be the centerfold of a magazine.

He comes back, shivering lightly and soaking but still smiling. “You looked good.” I tell him, wrapping the towel I dug out of his bag around him.

“What’s yelling something before jumping supposed to do anyway?” He asks, shaking his hair out like a dog.

“I don’t know, maybe it’s like making a wish?” I suggest.

“So like are we aiming for a good year for both of us, or a good beach trip or for us to get closer or what?” He presses.

“I don’t know, it’s _your_ wish.” I grumble.

He smiles slyly, shielding both of our faces with the towel before sneaking a quick kiss that makes me feel giddy and fizzy. “Maybe you gotta help it come true?” He says, teasingly, happily.

“Go…get dressed.” I tell him, too stunned to find any other words.

Seungyoon takes some time to air dry and shake the sand off before sloppily recreating his too-complicated outfit and shoving the damp towel back in his bag. He promises that we’ll come back to the beach before leading me to a homey seafood restaurant with sand dragged into the front entrance. The auntie at the front lights up when she sees Yoon and chats with him excitedly, congratulating him and telling him about the broadcasts she caught. He seems just as excited to talk to her, his satoori coming out strong as she led us to a cozy corner table.

Me and Yoon and end up both sipping on pretty shitty beer that kinda tastes like piss but the auntie insisted on giving it to us so I’m drinking it. “So, is this the date you imagined?” I ask, finding his leg under the table and knocking against it.

I can see the twitch of his body like he wants to be closer, like he’s trying to convince himself not to lean over the table and kiss me. “This isn’t a date.” He says instead.

“What?” My leg stops moving against his in shock.

“This isn’t a date.” He says like he’s teasing. “We’re idols. We don’t go on dates.”

“Right,” I laughed, “of course. This is a day trip.”

“Yeah, I just wanted to show you Busan, nothing else.”

There’s a cute, winking slyness to the whole thing. It’s an inside joke, it’s tongue-in-cheek way to talk about the suffocating constraints of our lives. And I’m sure the warm adoration is obvious in my eyes and soft smile. I want him to lean over the table and kiss me breathless almost desperately but we’re still in a restaurant and the auntie is coming back with our noodles and it would really be the worst idea from Kang Seungyoon, king of bad ideas. I wonder if our little corner table looks like a date even without the title, without the kissing anyway.

 An unexpected stop on Seungyoon’s Busan tour is the tacky, tourist shops by the beach. They’re mostly empty and I don’t want any souvenirs but he insists because “you’re a tourist too.” I like the sand on the sidewalks and the colorful awnings on all the shops and the racks of cheap, plastic sunglasses sitting outside. I especially like that Yoon is back to interlacing my fingers with his. I especially, especially like that I _like_ the skinship and that it’s so easily and readily available to me. That I can just reach my hand out and his will be there.

He sees one of those photobooths down the sidewalk and excitedly speeds up, tugging me along with him. “Come on, it’s just like Japan.”

“Better than Japan.” I correct, optimistically.

“Better than Japan.” He confirms.

There’s only a fluttery, cloth curtain between us and the sidewalk—less of a barrier than what we had on the train—but he still pushes me against the far wall of the booth to kiss me breathless, almost desperately. And I sigh into the kiss because it’s a _relief_. It’s a relief to be wanted just as much as I want and it’s a relief just to finally be kissed. I melt because I trust Yoon enough to melt under him and putting myself in his hands is still a thrill. The kiss is more than warm this time—it’s _heated_ —and I have to knot my fingers in one of his coats to keep myself grounded, to keep him plastered to me.

“You look cute like this.” He breathes against me and I watch his eyes roam over my flushed face, clearly pleased. “We should take a picture.”

And this _is_ better than Japan. We’re not rushed and sweaty and the fondness in Yoon’s eyes is palpable. There’s no kiss picture this time because there’s really no point in taking a picture that you can’t hang up anywhere (and we’re well past looking uncomfortable at chaste, cheek kisses). We’re naturally and easily close this time instead. There’s a picture where Yoon has his arm slung around my waist, his hand curling around my hip almost possessively. There’s another with both of us sticking our tongues out playfully, Yoon’s still stained blue from his ice cream. My favorite has Yoon pressed up against my side, his nose buried into the side of my neck, me throwing a contented v-sign to the camera. I slip photo strip in between the pages of the notebook in my bag once is finally comes out of the machine.

Seungyoon does take me back to the beach like he promised after we browse through at least three of the tourist traps and buy nothing. I’m mostly uninterested because everything there says “Busan” but the whole trip has just been about Yoon to me. The sky is barely tinted pink and blue when we make it back down to the sand. It reminds me of Yoon’s ice cream. “You’ve _gotta_ watch the sunset on the beach.” He gushes. “It’s really something else.”

I hum in agreement because the view’s pretty and I appreciate the charm of the coastal town and the food was amazing but it’s been hard to take my eyes off of Seungyoon. Even then, I was only seeing the setting sun as the background for his glowing profile.

The beach is still mostly empty and the wind feels harsher now that the sun is setting—colder coming off the water. Seungyoon parks us close to the water, on the towel he drenched earlier. The sunset is undeniably gorgeous but I’m more distracted by the way that I can tuck myself into Yoon’s side without complaint. Every time I’m able to pull him closer—just closer to him in any way—without repercussions is still a tiny miracle to me. There’s space for me at Yoon’s side and it’s not going anywhere and, god, I love being there. By the time that the sunset is reduced to the last of firey red licks over a choppy sea, I have my head resting on Yoon’s shoulder, trying to curl myself into him.

“Cold?” He asks, his arm curling around my waist, somehow pulling me closer. A shiver runs through me and answers for me. He chuckles lightly, untangling us to shrug one of his coats off and drape it over me.

“Then you’ll be cold.” I protest but the coat’s warmer than I think it can be and the way Yoon’s fingers slide against my skin make it hard to protest. It smells like him too even though we use the same laundry detergent and usually the same shampoo and live in the same house with the same pets, I can still tell it’s Yoon’s.

“That’s why I brought two.” He smiles.

“You’re always wearing like five layers or whatever, don’t lie.” I grumble but my hand’s already lightly threaded into where the coat rests on my shoulder.

“Yeah, so I have an extra coat in case any of the fans get cold.” He argues.

It’s a stupid idea—just inherently (like security ever let any of the fans get that close anyway). But it’s also just as reckless, considerate, stupid, kind and romantic as Yoon was so I just had to believe it. “That’s a terrible idea.” I scold him.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, tucking me under his arm, “this is just for you.” He presses a soft and fleeting kiss to the side of my head. I should argue that feeling jealous of the fans is ridiculous. That the fans never could’ve taken this trip with him. That the fans never got to share a house, a life with him. That the fans never got this close. That, of course, the fans never got fleeting kisses that felt like promises. But it’s warmer against Yoon than it ever has been under the sun so I just tuck my head into the side of his neck and press soft kisses there under the stars.

Yoon orders a coffee at the train station because things like “caffeine stupid late at night” have never bothered him and the way his pinkish fingers clutch at the cup makes me wonder if he’s really still cold (or if he _caught_ a cold, jumping into the water earlier). So I grab his free hand and stuff it in the pocket of his coat with mine. “Warm?” I ask. He just smiles fondly and squeezes his hand around mine. And there really is something to not only always having a place at Yoon’s side but also in having him enjoy me being there.

Yoon presses against me on the bench of our little compartment in the train again. It’s just as comfortable, just as natural, just as easy as it was on the way up but things are dreamy and quiet this time. His closeness is not a calculated move this time, he’s just crowding me because he’s soft and tired. All his movements are gentle and sloppy and he nuzzles into me like a sleepy kid. “How’d you like Busan?” He murmurs and this close to me his low, rough voice feels like a rumble or a purr.

I try to think about Busan, I really try. I try to think about sunsets and fresh seafood and popsicles on the beach and the crunch of sand under my feet and the satoori I’d heard all day. But I can only think about Yoon. I think about his boney fingers intertwined in mine and his round face split into a bright grin that outshone the sun and his lips on mine—insistently, sweetly. His fingers are no longer intertwined in mine but he’s pressed so tightly against me and I’m so wrapped up in his warmth that I don’t know if I can ever feel cold again. “It was amazing.” I tell him, eyes sparkling, hoping he gets the message.

“I’m glad.” He responds and his eyes are sparkling too and I’m kind of addicted to the easy way we can speak in codes like this.

I curl my arm around his waist and place a soft kiss to his hair. He sighs out something like a giggle, pressing his face into my neck. He returns it with his own soft kiss to my neck before drifting off to the steady rhythm of the train. I’m not far behind, I can still barely feel the soft pull of the tide on me but it’s a real rarity, having someone fall asleep on me and I want to enjoy it.

Seungyoon really does go from zero to one-hundred right back down to zero again. There really was no middle ground to him. And it was terrifying to me to never be able to half-commit to something, to take pleasure in it now when you knew it would hurt you in the long run, to never be able to put up walls or distance myself. But it must’ve just been a part of life to Yoon because he was totally passed out against me, no trace of the blindingly bright personality that lead me around Busan all day.

He’s still not cute when he’s sleeping—at least, not objectively—he’s drooling a little bit and his whole face is drooping into a stupid expression but I’m sure that the fondness I feel is still overly apparent in my eyes, in my slightly protective posture. I finally drift off, my head cushioned with the towel he brought against the train window, looking down at him like he lit up my whole world. (He did. At least for that day, he did.)

Yoon’s sluggish and clingy leaving the train. The station is less crowded, less lights are on and the snack bar is closed. Somehow, Yoon manages to look breathtakingly beautiful under the intermittent fluorescents even when he’s not shining and taking the lead. There’s something equally as good about him being tucked under my arm, clinging onto me, following my lead, though. “That was better than Japan.” He murmurs sleepily out of nowhere. “That was better than when I went with Seunghoon too.”

“I wouldn’t have gone with Seunghoon.” I answer honestly.

“ _You’re_ better than Seunghoon.” He says and presses and soft and slow kiss sloppily to some part of shoulder on a dimly-lit street near our dorm building.

I sneak a quicker, more precise kiss from him against the side of a high-rise apartment with most of the windows a pitch black. It sends Yoon into a fit of giggles that carries us back up to the dorms.

It’s weirdly bittersweet to see the sand left-over from the day swirl down the drain like I need some kind of permanent reminder of the beach and the water and tender touches and reverent compliments and sunny smiles. So when I get out, I tuck the picture from the photobooth into one of the million cubby holes lining my wall. It’s not really obvious among all the other pictures, art, gifts, albums and stuffed animals in the other squares but Yoon’s eyes find it almost immediately. He’s in my room, drying his hair in worn sweats. “I don’t wanna wake up Jinwoo.” He explains his presence sheepishly instead of explaining how he was able to find the picture so easily.

“Then stay here.” I offer easily. I’m the only one without a roommate with my “bad sleeping habits”—the nightmares, the insomnia, the shivering, the screaming that Jinwoo complains about. Yoon snores like a beast sometimes though.

“Yeah?” He asks, his head cocked to the side to towel dry his hair. It’s stupidly cute and I can’t think of anyone I’d rather share a bed with.

“Yeah.” I confirm and I really never think I’ll be able to find the words to really explain how much I want Yoon around, how much I appreciate him. So we have the implications, the expressions, the tender touches, the breathless kisses for now. But he smiles back at me like words weren’t needed, like he still understands and my heart leaps into my throat at that.

The beds in the dorm aren’t really meant for more than one person (what kind of message would YG be sending us if they were?) but Yoon wasn’t stupid tall like Seunhgoon or bulky like Minho and I wasn’t either so the fit was easy. He loosely curled around me, one his hands pressed to my chest and intertwined with mine. I pressed my face into his chest, tucked into a tight ball against him.

“Not a date?” I ask one last time because the day is finally catching up to me and Yoon’s warmth is overwhelming and I’m not gonna be awake much longer.

“Not a date.” He confirms softly, carding his free hand through my hair. Which is great and all because I probably shouldn’t be sleeping with him on our first date, after all. (But it’s not really our first date because it’s not a date at all because whatever we have here is too sweet and heavy and bleeds into everything too much for me to define it so neatly in a “date.”)

**Author's Note:**

> there's already a chapter two in the works but this stands on its own just fine and chapter two is all sad bc it's after taehyun leaves the group so i figured i'd just leave some fluff here for the time being  
> (there was a dumb joke in there about MIB in the original draft but like who tf ever talks about MIB anymore??)  
> [tumblr](angelinmyheartt.tumblr.com) [cc](https://curiouscat.me/Nitzer)


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